


Field Rations

by TymBunn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Felix, Canon-Typical Violence, Gore, M/M, Nausea, Pining, Season/Series 12, Sickness, Swearing, Training, lots of knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TymBunn/pseuds/TymBunn
Summary: [Set in early S12]Tucker is upset about not being able to rescue Washington with Felix too sick to clear them. That, or Felix is being sent on too many missions. Yet on one of the missions Tucker finds out what exactly has made Felix so sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I needed more cannibal Felix - it a guilty thirst I know. So I worked on this for about 3 months.  
> And a big thanks to my wonderful girlfriend that beta read this - despite not being in this fandom - and listening to me boast about word limits.

Meals were always entertaining among the current half of the Reds, Blues and all the other stragglers caught up in the shit that came with war. 

For instance, no matter how hard they tried, Caboose always ended up with some sort of fruit or seeds stuck between his teeth. Even if they hadn't been able to have anything that wasn't dehydrated and wrapped in packaging for how-many-years-later-consummation in weeks they'd been pinned down. 

Simmons always ended up picky as well. He wouldn't touch the stuff that tasted like "Grif's 'clean' laundry" even as the orange soldier wolfed it down for him.  
Sometimes the stuff was even used for food fights, moulding perfectly to handfuls and sticking to the roof even now.

On slow days’ songs were even broken out, and then arguments over lyrics. These were rare, but not enough for karaoke night to be suggested. 

Kimball of course shot it down.

Tucker instead found himself pushing the Grif Laundry meal into small misshapen balls. If Washington wasn't off being too busy tortured and being so damn right about preparing for attack the turquoise solider may have (as in totally would have) flicked the food at him.  
Instead he threw them at Grif. The first missed, the second hit him in the forehead, the third was caught and gobbled down, and the fourth 'missed' and landed in Simmon's shoulder joint. 

As the cyborg winged about having to get a power clean the fifth and still somewhat unwelcome member arrived. 

Even since Caboose's fruit box had been kicked out the window after being thought it was one of the experimental bombs there was the rule of no training while in the dining hall. Caboose still held the grudge and just seemed to catch on to milking the experience for points against Felix. Not that it usually got anything but simple conversation or the occasional 'compliment' - something the Blue seemed rather proud of anyway. 

But anything seemed lost on the mercenary at the moment. 

"Who pissed in your mouthwash?" Grif questioned, even while Simmon's muttered about them not even having toothbrushes anymore let alone such luxuries. 

"Did someone break your piggybank? I was sad when..." Caboose started with a sniffle. The rest tuned him out with years of practice as he went on another story. 

Felix only muttered something along the lines of not mentioning food or not mentioning money. Both were strange enough for Simmon's to stop picking at the gunk in his robotic joint to focus on the other. 

The maroon soldier was anything but a medic, and anyone he could have copied seemed to cause more harm than good. Yet he could see the paleness that stood out on Felix's face, or how he took one glance at the plate below him and swallowed hard, as if stopping something from coming up. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and his dyed Mohawk had lost some of its bounce. His glowing lens for an eye even picked up on a few of his various piercings missing. Their exact names flashed up in small text and he paid no heed to the statistics that showed him the they seemed to be mostly removed around the mouth.  
It was strange, and his eyes flicked over to Tucker. Of course the other seemed to bypass how Felix seemed like he could barely stay on his feet and focused on the attack that would never come in the mess hall. 

Grif snorted with his mouth full, elbowed Simmon's and scooped up Felix's food tray simultaneously as Felix pushed away from the table. He walked off with a hand against the wall for support, and disappeared slowly in the direction of Kimball's office. As Grif raised some of the meal to his mouth Caboose commented on germs. It didn't stop Grif, but Simmons certainly dry heaved and threatened to kick Grif out if he started acting the same. 

\---

"And how the actual fuck are we gonna do it if you don't let us?" 

"It's not about that Tucker, things are merely over your- all of our heads. We have set a time and-"

"And it's been fucked because your dude is too busy losing his guts. For who knows what!" Tucker snarled. He threw his arms wide out and was glad he was still wearing his helmet. The profanities he would be literally spitting were stopped by the damn filter filled, standard issued, re-enforced glass-ed and teal painted helmet that the damn cock sucker that was Agent Washington always hollered that he should keep on - and oh he fucking did when the man himself wasn't there to be flabbergasted at. "Because we're totally going to beat him when he's crouched over the loo." 

"I never said you had to go after Felix. It was to prove yourself Captain Tucker, not fight one of our best men instead of allowing him to do his duties." 

"Then who else there and what duties?! They need the ass-wipe to help them, so-"

"Tucker were in the middle of a war. There will be casualties and times where-"

"But they're the rest of us! _Us!_ " 

"Captain Tucker, for the last time. I cannot spare another moment for this 'training' for a rescue mission right now." Kimball had her hands splayed flat on the desk, and even her gaze under her visor would have made many of their troops stop whatever they had planned and soiled themselves instead. She was a force to be reckoned with, and her tone - especially that tone! - was one of the final say being announced. 

Yet Tucker was a cockbite who never followed those who yelled at him though, and after a moment he stepped back. 

There was a moment where victory over the argument seemed to weigh in Kimball's favour- only until Tucker's aqua coated boot slammed into the makeshift desk. The metal shrieked and jumped back only an inch and a half if one was lenient. It got the message through nevertheless. Tense silence lasted after that, stretching on past more than a few heartbeats before the snarl of armour against the aquamarine soldier turned around and huffed out. 

\---

The fact that he was soon forced on another scouting mission only added more salt to Tucker's outlook. It wasn't even anything good, nothing to gain by sending their small group out when they could be finally sticking how to assemble their rifles the 'correct and professional way'. 

But no, instead Tucker had to be squatting in foliage while he watched the same douchebag walk in the exact same rotation as he did exactly twelve minutes ago. His HUD only confirmed that with a silent message, the exact same text above it three more times. 

The message repeated twice more before a different guy finally showed himself. It wasn't a dead giveaway first off, but Tucker found himself noticing everything in hopes he didn't have to squat in place for another _hour_. 

He didn't in the end, the rotations narrowed down to the second and nothing else gained. Yet he still thanked Wash the next morning for his thighs not completely destroying him. 

His nipples though were an entirely different story after Felix was spotted wandering towards the half-working bathrooms. 

\---

After that Kimball officially extended the training rule to include the bathrooms as well as the mess hall. 

\---

"Those things are gonna kill ya." Tucker muttered, voice free from the filter of their helmets.  
Simmon's would have called them lazy.  
Kimball would have called them stupid for not thinking of the consequences.  
Felix would have said they were incompetent soldiers.  
Washington would have made them revisit the entire protocol for helmets and contraband items before saying all three.

Grif instead just puffed the smoke out into the air and seemed to watch it fade away before restarting the process with the cigarette in his lips. “Nah, war will sooner.”

Tucker snorted lightly and shook his head, though he knew it fell short of the nonchalant air they were both trying to project. It was fucking true now, no more box canyons with half assed fire fight that barely lasted two minutes. Instead they had to deal with their other half being tortured by enemies who had spent their entire life on the extremely real battlefield. 

They were scraping at their last reserves now in hopes to drag Sarge back to reclaim his position as their asshole leader, to bring back Donut in time that he would still make his stupid innuendos and to pick Wash up to shove “hey look who actually fucking listening to your stupid training?” in his face as they busted into their cell.  
Hell, even if another hour of laps, squats and other shit that sounded athletic and military like would be worth it if they managed to drag back Freckles or Lopez. It would give them jack shit in comparison to their actual friends, but at least then they could prove that they could fucking do it. 

“You’re so fucked.” Doesn’t exactly cut through the thoughts, but it still had Tucker screwing up his face and returning it colourfully. Grif used a finger to push the glowing butt of the cigarette against his boot, and it didn’t even hiss as it disappeared. Somewhere in the world some douche probably would have turned it into an analogy or metaphor on their failure. It instead signalled the end of their ‘talk’ as the pair silently picked themselves up. “We’re all so fucked.” 

\---

“West compound is clear, but rigged. _Do not enter_. I mean it Captain Tucker.” Felix snarls over the comm. He actually snarls, and gunshots pick up with the following sounds of ricocheting bullets. All Tucker can think is that he’s a dirty fucking liar. 

They had five days to train and perfect their lieutenant. The kids could barely hold silent while eavesdropping let alone follow complicated orders like breaking into one of the highest security compounds that the Federal Army had under its wing. Maybe he couldn’t keep his mouth shut too, but they were the saviours of the Galaxy, so they were excused from that.  
And now they had lost another day! And probably soldiers by the alert flashing up on his HUD. It could have been Watson or Cain or Pic as the weirdo demanded to be called. 

Tucker didn’t know which of those were worse if he had to think about it. 

Yet gunfire kept him pinned, energy sword at the ready. There was a single break where the enemy must have reloaded, and Tucker leapt out of over in a dead sprint. He tried not to think of how the Fed soldier didn’t even move despite looking too small for their armour that didn’t come from malnourishment. The Fed’s gun was knocked away before plasma cut through his white and blue armour, and then dropped.  
Tucker couldn’t wait, turning towards the concrete storage structure to the west. 

“Cain, hold ‘em off! North-west side.” He shouted into the mic, forced to skid to a stop as more bullets tore through the canvas by his left and sent the teal soldier backpedalling. “Now isn’t the time for someone to be chasing my ass.” Nothing. “Cain?” A pained groan came from Pic, but there was no response. “ _Cain_!”

Crackles filled Tucker’s ears from Cain’s mic, a sound that no human could make. With no explosions to cause any helmet malfunctions Tucker didn’t want to think what else could have made the noise. His own rifle sorted out the Fed, while return fire _ting_ -ed off his shoulder and bicep guard and narrowly missed the joints. 

Oh fuck it. He would plow through these guys, get to the west compound and prove to Felix that they were ready to go through with all this shit by saving his ass. Who would need training then?

\---

When he finally found himself in the west compound his steel boots skidded across cement before scraping against the walls. Any firefight that had been going on previously was only a ghost in Tucker’s memory. And if the silence gave no answers the limp hand of a Fed soldier as well as the gun of another practically warned him that Felix had cleaned them up easily.  
As he progressed onward Tucker found more bodies. All dead, though progressively more violent as the centre of the compound drew close past too many side rooms and seemingly random walls that the simulation thought was necessary even for these guys. One of the Fed’s even had her visor shattered, the shards both on her bloodied face and the floor. Tucker didn’t look close, though the similarities to her and Jenson as well as the knife wound brought too many _what if_ ’s up. 

He had almost wandered too far, much too far when the distinct thump of a knife was picked up and amplified in his HUD. Tucker slid back as much as he could but still poked his head around the corner. It might not have been the smartest move but hey, Tucker didn’t end up with one of Felix’s knives through his armour. 

Though that may have been due to the fact the orange-and-steel soldier was straddling another a Fed. Tucker thought momentarily that they were unconscious or Felix was whispering some sort of threat to them, because who knew what he did really. Yet the moment the serrated steel was brought up and sunk deep into the ribs of the Fed Tucker knew the guy was dead. No one could take a blade from someone like Felix without any reaction. 

Tucker watched, frozen in silence as the process was repeated over and over until the black under suit was in tatters, and of all things Felix chuckled into the air as he plunged his finger into one of the stab wounds. It didn’t last for long as instead he reached up, popping the seals on his helmet and discarded it to the side. It nudged the Fed’s main chest piece and seemed to accusingly look towards Tucker.  
Felix shook his clearly dyed hair, the ink black strands dyed a brilliant orange at the ends and stylised into a Mohawk that fell fairly flat. He shuffled back and twirled the knife before slashing it across the body’s chest. The blade caught a part of the tattered bodysuit from its last job and pulled it, expanding the tear across to reveal more skin and well more blood up. His cackle was clear in the air now, and as the blade _thunk_ ed into the chest he pulled it back. Most of the damage was blocked from sight by Felix’s body, but it repeated before the man leaned down. 

The moan was more explicit that anything that Tucker had ever heard before on any porn video, and it brought his throat tightening while his stomach flipped. It was like Felix himself had flipped, hands buried deep into the corpse as he took the chunk of flesh to his mouth and tore into it. He was feral, blood dripping and pooling before being splashed away in a haste to cut another chunk off. 

Bone rejected the serrated edge of the blade and the noise bounced around the compound before settling to ring in Tucker’s ears. Messily remaining pieces of armour were torn off, throw away in need to get to more undamaged areas. Somewhere after the chest and arms did Felix pause, and Tucker felt the cold dread finally seize in his chest. But the mercenary only shuffled back more to tear the suit down and plunge the knife into the soft stomach, and he proceeded to gorge himself.

\---

Two days later Tucker found himself sitting with Grif, Simmons and Caboose at their normal table in the New Republic’s mess hall. For once he wanted training to begin besides for the fact that Lopez and Sarge and Donut and Wash could be sitting there with them.  
He felt naked in the civilian clothes, with Palomo’s eyes drilling into his back from across the room. He wanted it done with and for training to begin. At least then he could be in his armour and away from blades that could only be deflected by reinforced metal plates that covered every inch of his body.

So when Tucker pushed away his tray of the laundry meal it was a relief to feel Palomo’s eyes shift away and only be replaced with Grif’s barely more tolerable gaze. “What the fuck’s wrong with you now?” He grumped. The grunt Tucker gave in response only got more prodding. “You miss Wash’s dick that much? You’re _so_ fucked then.”

“You’re all fucked if you don’t get out to training.” Felix voice interrupted. Tucker felt his fingers curl into fists, his mind bringing fourth images of the west compound – the mutilated body and Felix practically bathing in the blood there. He imagined the man suddenly feeling the craving for human flesh again and sinking his teeth into the flesh of Tucker’s neck in an entire unsexy way, for him pushing the blade into Caboose’s thigh and watching him bleed out, gutting Grif and getting sick on the amount of fat, even watching his blade skitter off most of Simmon’s enhanced body before just shoving the blade between his eyes with the complaint of there being more metal than flesh left on the maroon soldier.

But nothing happened as Simmons piped up, totally oblivious to the fact that Tucker sent him a harsh glare. They needed Felix The Fucking Cannibal away, not sucking up to him. “I heard that they found Cain’s body missing a hand.” He paused with uncertainty shaking his voice. “And that you came down on something in the field.” He sounded like a cadet in training or something similar, meek under Felix’s piercing gaze. 

Tucker was almost sick again when the orange-and-steel man responded.

“Yeah, just bad field rations.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also if you needed to know the file for this was called "TUCKINGTON FEELS FT FUCKED UP FELIX"


End file.
